Honour
by Javerts-Wench
Summary: A national guard soldier approaches the barricade and considers whether or not he's on the right side. Reposted and improved. Please READ and REVIEW!


**Well this is my second Les Miserables fic. I intentionally sat down to write an Enjolras fic, but instead this happened.**

**Please review after reading and let me know what you thought. I guess it's a strange concept.**

**And by the way it's written from the thoughts of a National Guard soldier.**

**Disclaimer- the character is my own invention, anything else isn't.**

**Now on with the story………**

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**"Honour"**

Approaching the end of the silent street, our thudding boots the only sound; I began to wonder whether or not this operation was really worth it. Worth all the bloodshed about to take place….

Growing up in the country with my father, I always was a fickle boy. I couldn't make my mind up about anything. Whether it was deciding on the black or brown boots, which toy was my favorite or simply whether I enjoyed reading books or not.

Now here I was again, in one of those situations where the most obvious choice isn't always the most agreeable or rational choice. It's not as though I was ever fond of becoming a soldier in the _Garde nationale_, in fact it was the one thing I was completely sure I didn't want to do. To follow in the footsteps of my 'honorable' father.

Painting was always my talent, but my father scoffed at my dreams of becoming the next _Leonardo_ _Da Vinci. _"Painting? Ha! You wouldn't last a month living off pretty pictures. But giving your services to the army. Now that's honor, dedicating your life to protect your country. Why, if God gave me my leg back I would be out there now, musket in hand, proud to be wearing the uniform, my old badges…"

Being only seventeen I never listened to my father. He was a realist and I a dreamer, far too immersed in the beauty of nature and the prospect of freedom. Looking back now I truly believe I'd have made a fine artist.

It was in the middle of August one year when my father was ill with a fatal influenza. Certain he would die he made me swear to forget my pretty pictures and become a soldier. To make my mother in Heaven proud and prove my worth in life. After all, I was nearing manhood. Not long after my father's passing I gave up my palette and easel for a fundamental life in the _Garde Nationale._

I shivered in the cool breeze as we continued to march. I looked beside me at my fellow soldiers. Their faces were grave, as usual. I began to wonder if they had a wife, perhaps even children. Did they always want to be in the army?

I tried to push these thought s out of my head; it would only make aiming the musket more complicated. Of course I had killed men before, 4 in fact. The common coldhearted criminals who deserved death. That may seem harsh. I used to think so too when my father would tell me stories of the men he killed and how he still saw their faces haunting his dreams at night. I could never imagine killing anybody, it wasn't in my nature. But that's what the army does to you.

I shivered in the cool breeze as we continued to march. The shape of the barricade came into view and above it stood shadows, weapons in hands.

Was I the **only** one who even thought about what we were doing? These brave men, sacrificing their lives for a greater cause, fighting for the people, giving them a chance. Yet what was I sacrificing myself for?

These men were treasonous rebels who broke the law and deserved to be killed, but what if for once the law was wrong?

I knew the law inside and out, studied it everyday since my promise to my father. But wasn't the law made to protect the people? And here we have the rebels protecting the people.

I couldn't help thinking about it. Had my thoughts been words I would have, no doubt, been arrested or shot by my fellow men on the spot. I glanced up at the barricade, only a few meters of blackness separating us from the ominous edifice.

In the twilight I could see the fearless face of the leader. Although years younger than me I looked up on him with great admiration. He stood up for what he believed in. An honorable young man who stood unswayed by what others thought. This man did not deserve to die, or the men behind him.

Beside him stood the scarlet flag dancing freely in the night. Here I was, standing before fellow dreamers, musket in hand, all for the sake of 'honor'.

The volley rang out and the gunshots echoed into the night. If I hadn't been so overcome with ignominy I'm sure I would have noticed the tear strolling down my cheek. Hesitantly I raised my musket and placed the cold, hard barrel in my mouth. I shut my eyes.

"Sorry father" I said as I pulled the trigger.

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**Hope you enjoyed. Please review!**


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